‘I do not know of whom you speak. I have had my day; and there were women in it. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters.
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